


White Ωne

by Zanbaby



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alpha Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Banter, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Creampie, Cunnilingus, F/M, Friendship, Implied Mpreg, Intersex, Knotting, M/M, Magic Cock, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Smut, Strap-Ons, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26376997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanbaby/pseuds/Zanbaby
Summary: Geralt goes into heat with very little warning and while Jaskier does his best to sate the needy omega, it soon becomes clear that he's going to need some backup~
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 10
Kudos: 145





	White Ωne

**Author's Note:**

> i've seen a lot of variations of how omegaverse works and how people explain the alignments etc so i ended up blending a few trends together for the purposes of this story. an idea i saw and made exclusive to geralt in this universe is the ability for omegas to change sex based on need so geralt is technically intersex. i also explored the idea of witchers being infertile and hc that they're only thought of as infertile bc they can't impregnate others, but that doesn't mean they can't be impregnated themselves, certainly not in geralt's case anyway as there are a few mentions in this story to him having had a baby for yen at some point. maybe i will write a fic about that too but anyway, enjoy ᕕ( ᐕ )ᕗ

Jaskier has been talking nonstop and without a _single_ hitch in his breath despite being made to walk alongside Roach. 

They are about two miles out of the next town, and Geralt has been enduring with gritted teeth as he feels the foreboding weight in his pelvis start to ache; not exactly a pleasant reminder, but a reminder nonetheless of just how lucky he was to get away from a den of werewolves before his heat set in.

More intuitive to the Witcher’s discomfort than their human companion, Roach has been treading lightly so as not to jostle Geralt too much. Geralt rewards her for her sympathy with an appreciate pat on the neck, but his unfailing misfortune and capacity to suppress his heat won’t see him last even one more mile at this pace, so, he grabs Jas by the scruff mid-ramble and hauls him up behind the cantle. 

“Woah! Hey, now this is a pleasant surprise, it’s not every day you’re so generous as to— ah!” 

Cut off by the sudden jolt into full gallop, Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt and holds on tight. 

“A little _warning_ , good Witcher!” he begs with mock offence, earning a barely-there grunt as Geralt heels the mare’s sides and urges her on toward the settlement that’s just now coming into view. “What’s the rush, big guy? We’ve got plenty of daylight left; the sun’s only just coming up,” Jas points out.

Predictably, Geralt doesn’t acknowledge that, but their closeness gives the chattering bard a clue. The scent glands in his neck are more prominent suddenly, swollen and no doubt desperate to start releasing pheromones to attract a mate, and he can see the way the man’s jaw bulges as he grinds his teeth. 

“…When we get there, let me do the talking, alright?” Jas says seriously.

This finally gets a response out of Geralt, who frowns and turns his head slightly to query, “Why would I entrust you with a task like that?”

“I can smell you, Geralt. And if I can smell you, a tavern full of alphas will have no trouble...”

The Witcher’s blood runs cold. He hadn’t thought his companion so perceptive, not to his situation or to the danger it poses to him. But, if he’s willing to help ease him through this predicament then he’d be a fool to decline, and being the fool is Jaskier’s jurisdiction. 

“I’ll get us a room while you stable Roach. When you untack her rub the pelt from under her saddle on your neck to try and cover your scent. I’ll meet you inside with the key and we go straight upstairs, got it?”

“Tch... I didn’t think you capable of such forethought...” Geralt says by way of agreement, smirking a little at the pleasant surprise of finding Jaskier to _actually_ possess some brains after all. 

Then again, he is a beta, so it’s not like he doesn’t have _any_ protective instincts. Being cunning is necessary when there is a lack of brawn, and perhaps he will be able to offer something in the way of sating his oncoming heat, too.

Yes, sex, that’s probably the motive behind Jaskier’s unlikely genius, Geralt thinks. Though, with the way he’s going, he’s not exactly opposed to the idea of granting him such a reward. If he doesn’t get caught and claimed by a bunch of gnarled and drunken warriors first, that is. 

They arrive in town swiftly, and Geralt rides right the way up to the nearest coach house to save from sidling through the streets longer than necessary. Jaskier dismounts first, fumbling his landing in his typically ungainly fashion, but he barely stops to laugh at himself before he’s barreling into the tavern with a few coins already in hand.

There’s only a stable-boy and another somewhat discrete looking gentleman in the barn, but Geralt still makes haste and avoids eye contact as he hurries Roach into an empty stall and begins untacking her. 

She goes straight for the hay, allowing him to slip her bridle off in one clean swoop, and then, as inconspicuously as he can, Geralt wipes the back of his neck down with the sheepskin saddlecloth. The dusty grass kind of smell is a pleasant if overpowering aroma, but certainly, Geralt would rather smell like sweat and horses than himself right now. 

He flips a coin to the stable-boy in exchange for taking the saddle, avoiding so much as brushing hands with him for fear of any kind of physical contact triggering his heat.

His skin is already starting to prickle, and though a sheen of sweat on his face doesn’t look out of place for a rugged Witcher, his scent will carry out of his body through perspiration as well. 

Every second he’s not already upstairs in a private room with a door that can be bolted is a second he’s wasting the meagre camouflage of Roach’s scent, so he strides purposefully into the tavern, pulling his hood up and swallowing his nerves. 

Jaskier catches sight of him and waves him over. It looks like he’s held up his end of the plan quite faithfully as he jangles a key in his face and then ushers him up the steps to the inn.

Geralt couldn’t help but notice that there are a few perceptive alphas around; their noses had twitched in his direction, but the bustling room of men who have come for their breakfast after a long night of staking out and hunting provides a good blanket for scents to drift and cancel each other out. 

He makes it up to the room just as a painful cramp radiates through his lower back and causes his knees to nearly buckle.

“It’s starting,” he grunts, leaning heavily on the doorframe as he grapples with getting the key in the lock.

“Right behind you,” Jas assures, keeping watch on the stairs until he sees the Witcher collapse into the room after much griping about getting the swollen wood to budge.

Jaskier bolts the door behind him then, going about closing the shutters and curtains. It’s a shame it’s not raining or he could open the windows to let the omega’s scent out, but allowing even a hint to escape would be an invitation to alphas far and wide.

“Up we go, big guy,” Jas groans softly as he helps a struggling Geralt onto the bed and goes about removing his boots and weapons. The minute the belt is pulled from his hips, a hand shoots out to grip the sheets as Geralt grounds out a pained sound.

He can feel the changes between his thighs taking place; his underwear already too damp to bear, and it’s just one discomfort too many.

“Oh, no-no-no!” Jaskier chides, “if you want those off let me help you,” he insists, pulling Geralt’s clawing hands away from his breeches and carefully removing them for him. 

He swallows thickly at the sight that greets him once the giant man is unclothed. The second opening that is usually fairly indistinguishable under his stout cock is starting to grow engorged, looking more and more like its intended state by the minute. 

The only other time Jaskier had caught a glimpse of the secondary sex organ was when Geralt was pregnant. Within the first month his body started to change and his cock receded into a clitoral hood, a rather plump vagina occupying the space between his perineum and his penis, but it’s still a surprise to see how it takes shape. The neatness with which the organ shrinks away makes it hard to believe that this is what’s hibernating within the usually seamless, cloaca-like pucker... and Jas would be lying if he denied any attraction to the scene. 

“S’too hot,” Geralt gasps, blindly reaching down to feel for himself how his vagina takes form and is already producing ungodly amounts of slick. “Fuck~”

“You know, I just thought of what it reminds me of...” Jas declares. “It’s like watching a flower bloom. I mean really, it’s _beautiful_ , it just... grows and grows, like petals unfurling,” he marvels absentmindedly.

“Shut _up!”_ Geralt growls, “you can write your bullshit poems about my cunt after you’ve made yourself fucking useful~!”

“Can I really?” Jaskier chirps, “write a poem about it, I mean?”

“ _No!_ For _fuck’s_ sake!” the tormented man trails off, losing his rage as quickly as it came on.

Jas doesn’t think he’s _ever_ seen such helplessness in the Witcher. His expression is the epitome of despair, to the point of looking positively sweet and wanton. Even when he was in labour he hadn’t looked so tormented. Back then he had been determined and focused on bringing Yen’s baby into the world, but now he looks — dare he even think it — _pathetic_. 

“Fucking _do_ something, beta,” Geralt interrupts with a whine. “It _hurts_ ~!”

“Ah! R-right, yes! Right, it’s alright,” Jas frantically reassures, snapping back to his senses when the older man _sobs_. “I— I’m going to take the pain away. I’m going to make it stop hurting I promise.”

Without really thinking about how he’ll follow through on that, he grabs both of Geralt’s powerful thighs, too big to actually sit in his hands, and pushes them apart.

The new orifice yawns at the movement; fully on display now and open wide as Jaskier dips his head down between those hot, weighty legs and licks apart the lapels of Geralt’s cunt. 

The Witcher moans and arches his back; inner thighs trembling at the contact of a warm, wet tongue inside him, and Jaskier is slightly worried about the potential decapitation he might face should Geralt experience a sudden rapture and _close_ those gargantuan quads around his head. Geralt is clearly trying his best to refrain though. His fists are gripping the bedsheets, thankfully, and his heels are burrowed into the mattress as his toes curl and he tries to maintain purchase.

“G-good boy, there’s a good boy,” Jas offers up briefly as he pats a tense thigh and involves his fingers, clasping his lips as tight as he dare around Geralt’s fat clit and flexing deep inside him to put pressure under his bladder.

That gets a whimper from the Witcher, and Jaskier’s cheeks catch ablaze to think that he did that to him; he _made_ him make that sound, the man who detests small talk and barely engages in even the friendliest of touches is now prone on the bed with his legs spread, a nose deep in his pussy and his best friend’s name on his tongue. 

His moans soon become insistent though; demanding and pleading, like even Jaskier’s dedicated fingering and the ardency of his tongue aren’t having an effect anymore. 

“Y-you have to fuck me...” the anguished giant begs, “ _please_ fuck me! It’s not _enough_ ~”

Something clicks in Jaskier then, and he doesn’t waste time with crooning reassurances or witty jabs. Instead, his hands go frantically to his belt and he pulls his half-hard cock out to give it a quick stroke to life. It alarms him a little at how helpful he finds Geralt’s agonised mewling, but he supposes even being a beta there’s an instinct in him to relieve the omega. 

The Witcher cries loudly as he slides into his sopping cunt, so hot and so sordid that he tears his own shirt in two to get it off his burning skin. Normally Jas might sigh and say something like, ‘Geralt, I wish you hadn’t done that, it was a perfectly good shirt! Now what will you wear out of here?’ but he, for once in his life, is speechless as the heat of Geralt’s body envelops him. 

The way his walls tighten around his cock, hugging him like he’s made to fit inside this body and no other has his eyes rolling back for a moment before the urge to start rutting overcomes him. He mantles the giant body beneath him, thrusting hard and deep, and Geralt holds him there with his thighs closed around him, panting and snarling, eyes screwed shut and spittle flying from between his clenched teeth.

It’s positively carnal; bestial and baseless and overbearingly hot. Geralt’s body is like a furnace inside and out, and Jas doesn’t think he’s ever seen his face so red. The only comparison he can recall is when he fell off Roach and tore his breeches standing back up, but even then, he’d barely blushed. 

“Fuck, for a big man you’re awfully tight, Geralt,” the bard growls, starting to perspire just from being so close to him. “I’m surprised you can even feel me...”

“Me too,” Geralt pants, “I didn’t think... you’d be big enough.”

“...Yes, alright, I walked right into that one,” Jas concedes, huffing again as he picks up the pace and chases for his orgasm. He could probably make a joke about walking right into Geralt with his legs so wide open, but his brain begins to eclipse with thoughts of pumping the omega full of cum instead, making his belly swell until he’s ripe with a child.

That’s all it takes for Jaskier to stutter into him, his breath hitching until it comes out as a long groan and his voice spills over like his cock spills into Geralt. The Witcher cums seconds later, contracting hard around the length inside him and drawing it deeper in with each throb; milking every drop out of Jas until the bard is close to keeling over with delirium. 

“Good lord... Geralt,” he gasps, “I think you nearly took my soul!”

“Again... I need it again,” Geralt pants before he’s even stopped spasming from his climax.

“Again? A-alright, just give me two seconds to—”

“ _Again!”_ Geralt implores, starting to look pained, like all that pounding hasn’t even scratched the _surface_ of his itch and is already losing its effectiveness. 

“Ah, Geralt,” Jaskier tuts worriedly, “I— I don’t think I’m going to be enough for you, I don’t think I can break your heat like this we— we need someone—”

“I need to get fucked!” Geralt interrupts with a riotous cry, prompting Jas to nervously shush him for fear of any keen alphas overhearing and taking that as invitation. His moaning and agonising are going to keep getting louder and louder though, and now that he’s had a taste of satisfaction he’s _perspiring_ hormones, his body just doing whatever it can to attract relief.

The room is becoming a beacon of omega allure; his smell bordering on overwhelming, and Jas is forced to pull out so he can go over and open the windows, just praying there’s a breeze to carry the scent elsewhere.

This was a mistake. Soon those men below will be breaking down the door to get to him, and while Jaskier is sure Geralt has fared worse encounters — probably — he _can’t_ abide his friend being ravaged by a bunch of frenzied strangers in a lowly pub like this. Maybe that would make him grateful _now_ but when he comes to he most certainly wouldn’t be.

“Geralt, I’m all out of ideas, tell me what I can do to help!” Jas presses, trying desperately to garner some semblance of aid from his labouring companion, “and I mean something besides fucking you again which I really _would_ love to do but I don’t think it’s going to give you any relief so—”

“Yen...” 

“What?”

“Yen!” Geralt repeats, his teeth gritted so hard and his voice such a beastly snarl that Jaskier can’t discern the word, so with a wince he leans in closer to ask again, “what?!”

“Get Yennefer!” Geralt roars, gripping him by the front of his linens. 

“Ah! _Yen!_ Y-yes, of course, I uh... how do I do that?” the bards stammers, looking around for a magic mirror or a crystal ball he can summon her with. 

“The book... in my bag… there’s a sigil. Draw it.”

“Yes, yes, book, bag, sigil— book, bag— ah! I’ve found it, now I just need some chalk,” Jaskier titters to himself anxiously.

Geralt responds only with a low, agonised groan as he rolls over onto his front and starts trying to fuck himself on his fingers, searching achingly for some semblance of relief.

“Oh my,” Jas squeaks, trying to pretend like that _doesn’t_ arouse him terribly; he can’t afford to get distracted. “Do uh... you have any chalk? A pot of ink perhaps?” 

“You don’t need it!” Geralt moans, “on the mirror... just draw it on the mirror with your finger!”

“Just... draw the shape?” Jaskier mutters to himself, glancing down at the intricate rune spread across the open page. “Alright,” he shrugs, reaching up to the slightly grimy mirror on the vanity and tracing the winding pattern in the centre. 

He gasps and retracts his hand when the complete symbol glows briefly and burns into the glass, but then his reflection becomes Yennefer, sitting down in her robe and casually twining her hair into a low bun.

“Ah, the idiot bard who swallowed my Djinn,” she acknowledges. “Geralt told you how to do this, I presume? Where is he?”

Jas shifts slightly to reveal the desperate Witcher on the bed behind him, three fingers deep in himself.

“Oh. Is he in heat?”

“Yes and he rather needs your help before a hoard of horny men come barging up here to... _have their way with him_ ,” Jas informs, lowering his voice as if to save Geralt from the knowledge he quite blatantly already possesses. 

“You can’t give him a fix with your little beta cock then?” she teases.

“I— I will have you _know_ that _despite_ my status I am rather well endowed!” the petite man huffs. “And... I’ve already tried that... he— he’s too _greedy!”_

“Yen~!” Geralt wails impatiently, deaf to the details of their traded jibes but familiar enough with his friends to know that they’re wasting time bantering. 

“Alright, love,” the devious alpha reassures. “I’ll be two ticks.”

The mirror returns Jaskier’s reflection then, and before he can so much as snap the book shut there’s a portal opening behind him.

“Silly old man,” Yen croons as she appears in just a silk robe and steps out of the burning wheel, and Geralt all but _melts_ in the presence of an alpha, her scent alone enough to soothe him.

He can’t help it. His heat has worn him down and he’s far too ready to submit.

“Watch this, bard,” Yen invites as she situates herself between Geralt’s spread thighs and manifests a huge, nonhuman phallus.

It’s ribbed, long enough to reach the womb and obsidian in colour; so dark it’s almost purple. 

It shimmers like the night, already slicked up and boasting a visible broadness at the hilt, ready to travel down the shaft and pump the Witcher full of what Jaskier suspects isn’t likely to be cum. There’s an odd set of fronds at the base, too, he notes. Like a collar of tiny tentacles. 

“Peculiar, um—” that query dies on his lips as Yen plunges into the Witcher’s weeping cunt, drawing a wordless howl from him as he grips the damp sheets beneath his burning body and cants his head back into the pillows. 

“That’s more like it, hey, big boy? You just needed a nice fat cock inside you to make it all better, hm?” Yen purrs, circling her hips now she’s inside him and making his sopping hole clench around the intrusion of her strap. 

Geralt whimpers and whines, sobbing with relief as she nestles deep, _deep_ in his pelvis and rubs his insides with the ribbed shaft. 

“That’s it, Witcher,” she commends, offering little titbits of praise for his delicious noises. In this state he’ll be very reasonable, she knows, and though he might deny it, he’s a sucker for such affection.

“Alright, Geralt?” Jas gives him a nod as those amber eyes span their gaze toward him with pupils blown wide but lids barely open. “Feeling better now?” he chirps, gently rubbing his chest as he perches by his bedside. 

Geralt takes his hand, holding it there as he stares at the other man with an unreadable expression. 

“What uh— what is he doing?” the confused bard asks, glancing back at Yen for an answer. 

“He’s bonding with you,” the sorceress pants as she keeps thrusting into him, “he’s asking you to stay… see? He feels safe with you.”

“Is that it?” Jas smiles, taking a tone as if he’s addressing a newborn baby, “you want me to stay, do you?”

Geralt seems unable to reply from his sedate state, but his body continues to act on his brain’s behalf, and he pulls Jaskier a little closer. 

“N’aw, look at you,” the younger man tuts, “you’re not such a brute, are you? Just needed a nice good shag to sort you out.”

Yennefer snorts a laugh behind him, her grip notably intensifying to keep holding up Geralt’s barbarian thighs as she fucks him. “Keep talking like that and he might fall in love with you,” she cautions. “Omegas can be very impressionable in this state...”

Too beguiled by the blissful look on Geralt’s face, that warning falls on deaf ears, though Yen suspects that if Geralt were to fall in love with his friend it would have happened already... and maybe it has.

“Just like old times, eh? Remember last year when we were doing this?” Jaskier chats, totally impermeable to the mood of the situation. 

“Not quite the same,” Yen huffs, “I’m only sating him now. Last time I did this it was to get a child out of him.”

Jaskier shrugs and cants his head as if to say ‘well’ then follows up with, “still, we were all together having a grand time, weren’t we, Geralt— _Geralt?!”_

“Relax,” Yen sighs irritably. “His heat’s dwindling, that’s all it is,” she assures in response to Jaskier’s horror at seeing his companion with his eyes rolled up in his head and his mouth slack, producing no sound. 

“Are you quite sure?! He looks like a corpse!”

“He’s _just_ relaxed,” the sorceress insists, “and ready to be knotted.”

It’s then that Jas realises those peculiar decorations at the base of the alpha’s cock are not bristles, but barbs, there to ensure that once she’s inside him no motion can separate them. 

Jaskier can’t say he much fancies that part himself, but for Geralt perhaps it will feel good... or not?

Apparently it feels like nothing to the Witcher, who remains corpselike even when Yen pushes in right up to the hilt and the barbs stiffen inside him. Her knot is so huge and deep that it makes his stomach bulge as it passes down the shaft and plugs his cervix, and though the pleasure of being full and satiated draws a small sound of gratitude from him, Geralt is practically asleep now. 

“How uh... how long must you keep him like this?” Jas wonders. 

“About an hour or two will do it,” Yen casually concludes, letting his thighs slip from her hands where they fall open around her. 

“Poor Geralt... I mean I knew he had it hard but... well, this is the first heat he’s had since we began travelling together...” he says pityingly. 

“Geralt is rare in many ways,” Yennefer remarks, gently dragging her nails through his silvery pubes and chasing his happy trail all the way up to his belly with idle interest. “Being a Witcher is one thing, but being a Witcher who’s an omega is stranger still...”

“How likely do you think it is that this will happen to him again?”

“Quite likely,” the alpha admits. “But it won’t be often. If, as you say, this is the first heat he’s had since travelling together, I should imagine it’s seasonal or... even annual... couldn’t be sure without simply observing him,” she shrugs. 

“Well, we’ll take good care of you, big fella’,” Jaskier smiles as he returns his attention to Geralt and gives his arm a rub.

Yen just smirks behind his back, admittedly endeared by the fool’s devotion to his emotionally avoidant Witcher. 

They give it another hour then. Geralt is completely unmoving save for the steady rise and fall of his great chest, but after checking his temperature and his response to touch, Yen confirms that her work here is done, and she dismisses the empty appendage with a wave of her hand. 

“Is that really all?” Jas frets as he watches her retreat from between Geralt’s spread thighs and begins readjusting her gown.

“That’s really all,” she replies, lifting an indifferent gaze to the sleeping man. “Consider us even now, Witcher. You carried a child for me and in return you’re free from being burdened with some deranged alpha’s bastard.”

“Oh, so he’s not having another of yours then?” Jaskier asks innocently. 

“I was _talking_ about the filth out there,” Yen snaps as she tugs her gloves back on. “God, if I didn’t know you to be a half-wit that might have actually been scathing,” she grumbles with a roll of her eyes.

“He will be grateful,” the scolded bard speaks up as he continues idly stroking Geralt’s matted hair. 

“I’m sure,” the sorceress agrees. “Maybe think about getting him into a bath once he comes to,” she adds after a brief eyeballing of the unconscious slayer with his cunt dribbling endlessly. “Anyway, I’ve no doubt we’ll run into each other again. Until then, bard.”

“Y-yes, until then,” Jas smiles, watching her gather her skirts and step through another portal. 

The room feels suddenly silent now, aside from the riotous ruckus going on downstairs that can be heard through the floorboards, but Geralt doesn’t seem to be producing a scent anymore, only his natural musk of sweat and muck and horse hair. 

“Poor chap...” Jaskier muses, checking his temperature again to see that he is just about normal now. Yen broke his heat clean in half with just one good fuck, impressive even knowing her gifts and her status, but Jas would _like_ to think he helped...

Geralt stirs briefly then, frowning in his sleep as he murmurs something unintelligible.

“Alright there, you big brute,” the bard sympathises, patting his hand before tucking it into bed with him. “I’ll go and draw us that bath now. I reckon that’ll be your first of the year, no?”

Probably just as well Geralt isn’t awake to hear _that_ jibe...


End file.
